~Caro~

I’m not dead.

But, damn, if I didn’t try…

At the very least, I’m able to recognize that I’m not awake. I know because I can’t smell anything, or feel the ground… The fact that there’s even a ground at all amazes me. If I could feel the ground, it would be coarse, and the ash would stain my coat.

My coat… I’m not wearing armor anymore. Even if I can’t feel anything, it’s still a relief to be out of it. I swear on my life, as little as that means anymore, I won’t wear that armor ever again if I can help it. Outside of a grand battle, at the very least.

Well, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Odds are, I won’t be seeing battle for a long time, if ever… Such a pity. Even in this state of subconsciousness, where my senses are limited, I don’t have my left foreleg. Sliced off at the base, with a layer of skin covering the wound. Not much fur has grown there yet. Walking on three legs, that’ll take getting used to. The hardest part is trying to stand up.

After a few attempts at standing end up with my face in the not-quite-there dirt, I let out a frustrated groan that echoes across the void. Still, I keep trying. I’ve been able to come back from next to nothing before, and this will not be an exception. This time, however, I’m willing to say that one word my past self hated so much.

“Help…”

A white hoof appears to me. An involuntary smile comes onto my muzzle, and my heart pounds so heavily I can feel it in my ears. I knew this one would be here for me. I look up to the source of the hoof.

Much to my disappointment, it’s not exactly who I expect it to be. In fact, I don’t know this pony at all, at least I don’t think I do. I’ve seen so many faces in recent times, I’m sure I’ve forgotten many of them. Although I doubt that I would forget a mare with distinct draconic features. Her tail, muzzle, eyes and wings are all so distinctly those of a dragon.

I can only think of one thing I’ve seen that fits this description. “Dragos?”

“Incorrect. Try again, Caro,” says the dragon mare.

Just hearing her speak is enough for me to figure out who she is. Of course I would recognize her. I’ve only heard her voice for so long. “Rasahrel,” I say, this time sure I have her right.

She nods at me. “Were you awake right now, I’d take control of your body and strike you across the face.”

“I missed you too,” I grumble. I reach out and take her hoof. She pulls me up, allowing me to stand. “Thank you.”

It’s the strangest thing. As far as I’m concerned, the only proof that I don’t have a fourth leg anymore is that it’s not there at all. I still feel it. It’s like that part of me is a ghost, as if I could bring that part of me back through sheer willpower. But I can’t. It’s gone, and it’s not coming back. I accepted that before I cut it off.

I’m more concerned about the unknown, like why Rasahrel has this equine form. She’s beautiful, without a shadow of doubt, but I remember her as a dragon, so seeing her in a pony’s form, at least partially, may take some adjusting on my part.

I smile and gesture to the void around us. “Welcome to my mind. I apologize, the place isn’t very furnished.”

“I should be welcoming you. I’ve actually occupied this place for some time now,” Rasahrel says.

“Is that so?”

“I’m a part of you, Caro. Your body is mine to explore, as it is for the rest of the dragons that you’ve consumed. I’ve long grown used to the wide, empty expanses of your head. Although I have come across some unusual instances…”

I purse my lips, trying to suppress a blush. “Such as?”

“Nothing I can’t understand. Other areas, however…” Rasahrel looks away from me. I think she’s seeing something I cannot. “I have questions. See, none of my fellow dovah know your culture as well as some of us would like. I’d wager It would take more than a few months to know the entire equine race. I would at least like to know a single pony.”

“I’m not going anywhere for a while. What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” she says. “About you. What makes you… this. Why you’ll be the one to kill Saviikaan.”

I move forward, but I can’t do it in the same way as before. I have to move my foreleg out first, put my weight on it, and then move my hind legs. It’s an arduous process, not to mention I move much slower than anypony reasonably should, but I’m moving. That’s what matters.

The void fills with apparitions from my past. I can only recognize a few, as they’re distorted and rippled, like I’m looking at their reflections in a lake. I’m sure I see Riverhoof, as well as Master’s old forge.

“Where do you want to start?”

~Vision End~

In a small shack on the outskirts of Ghastly Gorge, a foal leans over a desk, muttering frustrated words to himself.

“What went wrong… What went wrong?” Boysenberry’s tired voice echoes within the small cabin. The late hour provides little light for him to read by. His withers are hunched and his normally well-groomed mane falls around his head and neck like a mop. He looks more tired and angry than any foal should.

The floor around his hind legs is littered with broken quills and ink bottles. He’s working his magic beyond the level he reasonably should, levitating several quills at once as he jots down notes on a map of Ghastly Gorge. His notes are inconsistent in quality, with his earlier lines of writing being elegant and organized, as per the norm for his works.

Eastern squadron’s initial assault, intercepted by centaurs. Centaurs defeated with passable losses. Charge continues. Corporal Tohro breaks away from group upon arrival at the pass.

He lays another note down, this one in the center of the map. Now his writing has become less articulate.

Shokenda Blackwing’s arrival Situation dire Dragonborn attacks Blackwings regroup Not done yet

Boysenberry bites his lip as he holds his head, growling at himself, as well as the pain riling up in his forehead. This is his third migraine today. He counts himself lucky that he has his medicine with him. He sets his quills down, alleviating some of the pressure, and opens up his pouch. He sorts through the rest of his ink bottles and a few stray coins to find his white potion. Jarl Drake made sure he packed an excess.

As Boysenberry raises the vial to his lips, he hesitates. He swears he can hear laughter. He turns around, looking for the source, but he can’t pinpoint it. The laughing seems to move every time he turns his head. He covers a single ear, but the laughter doesn’t stop. It seems to be even louder. Reluctantly, Boysenberry sets down the vial and covers his other ear. There’s still laughter. He’s hearing it in his mind.

“Away with you,” he says, waving his forelegs. He reaches for the vial’s cork, only for his hoof to stop.

For a moment, he considers whether he really wants to drink it, and whether or not Jarl Drake’s intentions are entirely reasonable. Why should she determine what he puts down his throat? Besides, it’s not as though he needed any medicine before he met her. Yes, a select few tried to hurt him, but he survived just fine on his own. It was their fault for standing in his way of what belonged to him.

Such sweet, succulent gems. Vessels for power untold…

“Child? Are you still awake?”

Boysenberry blinks quickly and looks behind him. Jarl Drake is entering the cabin, lowering her decorated hood. Her horn lights up, and she casts a small light above the table, illuminating Boysenberry’s work. He hadn’t realized how dark it is until now.

“It would seem so.” Boysenberry quickly uncorks the vial, drains it down his throat, and shoves it back in his pouch. His migraine starts to subside, though he can’t help but think it’s only because he’s making an effort to pretend he never had one to begin with. They’re becoming more frequent.

He decides to check over his notes again, looking over the western offensive for what feels like the ninth time.

Blackwing archers lie in wait. Offensive splits into diversion team and stealth operatives. Archers are taken out. Moderate losses. Advance becomes easier and quicker.

He finds a patch of the map that he hasn’t filled in yet. He jots down another note, his handwriting shaken and uneven.

Lieutenant Grappler separated from party by a unicorn elite. Twelve Blackwings arrive. Shot and stabbed. Grappler enters berserk rage. No survivors.

He takes another note, placing it at the gorge, just across from the Imperial camp.

Defensive line dragged into the gorge by pegasus strikers, one survivor.

And another note.

Field sages go to heal scorched soldiers no survivors

And another.

push into pass frozen by line of blackwing unicorns no survivors

Jarl Drake takes a seat across the table from Boysenberry, removing her drenched cloak and laying it on her chair. Her extravagant attire is the rain’s latest victim. A storm had rolled in a few days after the battle, completely washing Ghastly Gorge clean of blood and rot. Yet, even after a week, the stench of a melting dragon is still pungent, and the rain has done little to cleanse solemn thoughts from anypony’s mind.

Except for one pony, it seems. “Why must you obsess with what’s already done?” Jarl Drake asks, scanning over the obsessively noted map.

Boysenberry looks at her as though she had just called him the foulest possible name. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t have much of a part in this battle. Now I understand why Her Majesty isn’t too fond of what you did all those years ago.”

“Funny,” Jarl Drake says with a straight face. “You sound a lot like her right now.”

Boysenberry isn’t about to lose his calm. He keeps a neutral expression as he speaks. “Congratulations to you then, being so able to forget how much it hurts to have the deaths of a hundred soldiers on your hooves. Maybe you can help me through this, then.”

“Blaming yourself for a battle plan collaborated upon by several strategists. I can’t say I sympathize—”

“How fitting for a son to make his mother’s mistake!” Boysenberry shouts. He quickly retracts his voice. “Sorry…”

Jarl Drake folds her forelegs atop the table. “I’m not your mother. But I am happy to know you think of me as such. Should have made that clear years ago. If I had, maybe you wouldn’t have become so anhedonic.”

“I don’t do any of this to make you proud of me, if that’s what you think,” Boysenberry mutters sternly. “I’m simply trying to do my part, that’s all. I want to help. I want to be seen as a good pony, someone that can be respected and looked up to.”

“I respect you.”

“Do you?”

“I made you my court mage. I let you use your brilliant mind. You’ve more than made me glad I did so. You’ve exceeded my expectations. Why are you so insecure about that? You’ve accomplished so much. Why can’t you accept even the slightest mistake? That’s not healthy.” Jarl Drake stands, slowly moving around the table to Boysenberry. She gently lays her hoof on his shoulder. “This... goes deeper than you, doesn’t it? Are you trying to compensate for something? Or someone?”

The jarl’s words strike deep. Like blood from a gaping wound, Boysenberry can’t stop the words from pouring out. “We’re different. From most ponies, I mean,” he says. “Everypony I know in a position of power expects something to give for their shortcomings, or somepony else’s. Just look at Queen Platinum. She spent half her time under the burden of the crown making careless mistakes, and has spent the other half trying to fix them. And look at King Hurricane before her. He made efforts to change Equestria into the exact opposite of his homeland. Even Shokenda’s motivations are understandable. Equestria isn’t how she thinks it should be, so she’s fixing it, albeit in her own insane way...”

Jarl Drake nods. “So this is about compensation. You want to make up for what was lost.”

Boysenberry takes a deep breath and pushes Jarl Drake’s hoof away. “And you didn’t.”

“Oh. Ooooh, my goodness…” The jarl touches her forehead and steps away.

“How do you do it? You have countless missteps in your history. Giving Dragonborn Argent political power, the first battle of Ghastly Gorge, breaking off from the Empire, publicly executing Blackwings…”

“Yes, I made some mistakes. Why is that such a problem?” Jarl Drake shakes her head. “I’ve understood for a while. You want to go beyond what I’ve accomplished, which, to be honest, is very little. But it’s not enough. You must be this flawless king among kings who has a clean record. Everything you touch much turn to crystal or it’s worthless to you or anypony else.” She goes back to her seat and grabs her garment. “I hate to be the one who teaches you this, but the world doesn’t work like that. You will slip and fall. But life is hard enough even without those failings, and you won’t get anywhere pretending they matter in the grand scheme of things. When you spill your potion, just make another one. That’s what my parents told me, and that’s what I’m telling you.”

Boysenberry bows his head. His breath begins to tremble, though it goes unheard by Jarl Drake, who is opening the cabin door. She’s about to step out into the rain again, when Boysenberry speaks in a rattled voice, “Why can’t you accept that you should have just left me on the beach to die?”

Jarl Drake stops just as her hoof touches the dirt outside the cabin. Her expression is grim and still. She only remembers to blink when a drop of rain falls on her face. She turns around and faces Boysenberry.

The child raises his head and opens his eyes. Where his whites should be, there’s an acidic green aura that cuts through the darkness. “You know what this is,” Boysenberry says, his voice echoing through the air. “You’ve known ever since you found me. I was alone. There was fire everywhere. You told me I survived a dragon attack. You lied to me. There was no dragon at Macintosh Coast that day. I destroyed that town.”

Jarl Drake holds up her hoof, gesturing at Boysenberry commandingly. “Yes, I lied about the dragon. But I will not admit that you were responsible for what happened.”

“So… what?” Boysenberry’s hoof crosses his chest. “You’re just going to pass the blame off on this… thing? I’m its host!”

“I swore when I took you in that I’d be the one to get rid of that thing. I won’t let it—”

“Oh, you swear!” Boysenberry yells. “You have the deaths of hundreds on your hooves. What makes you think you can save one life?”

Jarl Drake opens her mouth, ready to give her response, but nothing comes out, besides a weak breath and a defeated sigh. She leans against the doorframe, unable to speak. She raises her foreleg up to her face, holding it up to her eyes to preemptively stop any tears.

Boysenberry is about to speak again when Tohro, clad in a simple robe and several bandages, walks by the cabin. As it has been for the past few days, the young pegasus looks fatigued, and he walks with a limp. Despite that, he somehow finds it in himself to smile. He leans into the cabin and glances over Jarl Drake and Boysenberry. His smile drops when he takes in their bitterness. “Oh, am I interrupting anything?”

Jarl Drake grunts. “No, you’re fine…”

Boysenberry’s green aura disappears. “Has the Dragonborn come around?”

Tohro shakes his head. “No, but his heartbeat is a bit more consistent now, so that’s something.” He puts his smile back on. “That’s something…”

Boysenberry quietly reaches into his pouch and takes out another potion. “It’s odd, really. I was convinced that he would… Granted, he won’t come out of it entirely unscathed, but… Well, you catch my meaning.” He takes a swig from the vial. “Do you think he’s heard you?”

“I’ve been at his side for days, but no, I don’t think that has anything to do with anything… Still, it would be nice if he did hear me. Otherwise, I’ve let this pretty face go to waste for nothing.” Tohro smirks, gesturing to his visible exhaustion. “Still, the sages said it’s all fine and good if I sleep next to him, so you know where to find m… m…” He’s interrupted by a sudden yawn. “...If you need anything.”

“She might,” Boysenberry mutters, keeping a threatening eye turned to Jarl Drake.

~Caro~

“You speak of your hometown so often, it’d be a tad surreal to actually see it,” says Rasahrel. “The way you describe Riverhoof, it’s as though it’s some haven irrelevant to this plane of reality, or any other.”

“I can understand that much,” I reply. “I’m sure that if I saw the old kingdoms, or even the Precursor cities, they would look nothing like I imagine.”

“I could describe them to you.” Rasahrel casts her hoof up to where the sky would be. “Imagine towers suspended from the clouds, held in place by an older breed of magic that likes of which your kind has yet to discover. Their temples, which were dedicated to us dovah, were the only buildings allowed to breach the clouds.”

“What happened if anything other than a temple went above the clouds?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

Sure enough, Rasahrel draws her hoof across her neck. It’s still so bizarre to see her without claws. “Saviikaan was ruthless. Hard to believe I ever admired him…”

“He drew you in by making you fear him, and you deluded yourself into thinking that was a good enough reason to worship him. Trust me, that’s a story I’ve heard told time and time again.”

Rasahrel bows her head, sighing heavily. “So much of my kind is a slave to his whim, unaware of how they suffer in his shadow.”

“And yet, he served her anyway…”

“Huh?” Rasahrel looks at me with a cocked brow. Before I can clarify, she nods. “Oh. I understand. That Shokenda Blackwing… I imagine she’s livid at how many times she’s let you and your friends slip through her grasp.”

“She can’t seem to make up her mind on whether I should live or die. She’s an indecisive one, and that just makes her all the more difficult to read. But it doesn’t matter what she wants from me. If I die, or let her have her way, Everfree will fall. I can’t let that happen.”

“Don’t let it fall!” I hear a familiar voice call out. It’s familiar for two reasons; not only is that Master Hammerfell’s equine voice, it’s also something I somewhat remember him saying to me several years ago.

There I am, a mere child with a proper mane of bronze, walking upon the roads of the outskirts of Riverhoof. My hoofsteps fill in the void as I follow Master Hammerfell, who pulls a heavy cart. A vase is dangling from a bag on top of the cart’s load, which includes crates, decorated pottery, and ingots of various metals.

Responding to Master’s plea, I hop onto the crates, using them as stairs as I go to the top of the load. I grab the vase out of its bag just as it threatens to fall. That’s one crisis averted. “Should I just carry this the rest of the way?” I ask Master.

“By all means,” he replies. His grin is bright when compared to his dark coat. “Talk about a close call. When you carry a burden such as this, it can be hard to move forward, much less keep everything intact. It’s good to have companions to share it with.”

My child self is ignorant of Master’s meaning. “It’s just a vase.”

“Yes, but even so, you’re assisting in carrying this load, and that is admirable. Come along, now. I have a craving for honey-baked biscuits.”

“As do I, sir.”

I watch Master and my child form pass by. I’m looking at Master with such reverence, full of pride that I have the privilege just to know him. I’m so ignorant of what he truly is, and what he has in store for me. His message will sink in eventually, even if it takes several years.

“I see you used to be the type to take things literally,” Rasahrel comments.

I blush, mildly abashed at the reminder of who I used to be. “I was young. Well… younger. But yes, I was always out of sorts with the rest of Riverhoof’s populace.” I gesture to the forge where I used to live, my heart pumping fast in anticipation of nostalgia. I can’t take in the scents of cedar, smoke and honey that had long since settled into the walls by the time of this memory, but I can certainly remember the smell.

Out on the porch is a pit made of bricks, filled to the brim with coals. I rapidly tap the bellows, causing the coals to come alight. It’s the dead of summer, so it should be sweltering, but I’m able to shrug off the heat in the name of the craft.

“This was your day? Just this?” Rasahrel asks, bewildered by what she sees before her. She steps onto the front porch and walks around my young form, eyeing my wide, childish smile. A few of my teeth are crooked. If I recall correctly, that came from biting hilts a little too hard. I’ve had the town mage set my teeth right more than once. “Well, I can see the difference between this form of labor, and the labor of the Precursors,” Rasahrel says. “The majority of them only performed such crafts because they were told to. You…”

“I did it because I loved it. There was nothing else.” I point to an assortment of children who gallop past the forge, one of them tripping over the first step. My young self briefly glances away from the sword placed over the coals, then continues to sharpen the blade. The child looks at me with indifference, and walks away to join his friends.

Meanwhile, Master sits in a nearby lounging chair, adding tobacco to his pipe and lazily smoking it. He looks up to the sky, inhales, and breathes out five smoke rings. I look up from the sword and look at Master with a hint of jealousy. “Wish I could do that,” I say.

“This is my finesse. Yours is with the forge, my dear,” says Master.

“‘My dear’?” Rasahrel asks, a toothy grin spread across her muzzle.

“Not a common phrase among dragons, is it?” I ask in return. “Master always went out of his way to make me feel comfortable, and hearing things like that certainly helped. Though, I think I’ve long since outgrown the need.”

“Have you now?”

I chuckle and nod. “You have no clue how distressing it is to hear a dragon call you pet names.”

Rasahrel laughs heartily, and begins to move away from the memory of the forge. “Shall we continue on then, uh… darling?”

“Do you wish to be slain twice?”

~Vision End~

~Tohro~

Flowers are lain by his bed. Roses on his nightstand, cosmos on his blanket, and cherry blossoms at the end. I’m sure that if Caro were able to smell, he’d be enraptured by such a pleasant, welcoming scent. It’s partly the reason why I remain on the bed next to him. Being able to see and smell such beautiful things helps me keep my smile alive.

Ever since the flowers began arriving, I’ve tried to keep count of how many have come in to add to the expanding garden. I lost a few days ago, when sleep took over and forced me to close my eyes. When I opened them again, Caro’s bed was unrecognizable, aside from the mighty stallion himself.

Today brings a new change for him. He’s smiling, for whatever reason. It seems that these improvements come more and more rapidly. When he was first brought in, bleeding and broken beyond all recognition, we all thought he was gone. We only put him to bed as a formality, holding on to hope that he would recover, as ridiculous as the idea seemed.

Then, against all odds, his heart started beating again. He began to breathe. His body turned warm. Once again, Caro defied all of my expectations and came back from the brink. Unfortunately, it won’t be a complete recovery, but still, any semblance of life is a blessing, for both me and him. The fact that he’s smiling is further reassurance that he’s aware of how much we need him, and I sincerely believe that he’s going to wake up.

Eventually.

Until then, I have plenty of familiar faces to keep me company. My favorite foal Treesap comes into the room, joined by Onslaught. The two seem to be two peas in a pod, despite being complete strangers until just a few days ago. “Hello, Tohro!” Treesap says to me, galloping up and giving me a welcome embrace. “Long time, huh?”

“Yeah, too long… Came back for your usual deliveries, I’m guessing?”

“That’s right.” Treesap presents a small jar and pulls out a cherry blossom. “These are getting harder to find.”

Onslaught has a cosmos in hoof. “But it’s worth it. Can’t wait for him to see this.”

“Don’t worry. He will.” I tousle the manes of both these lively foals. “And I know he’ll love it. You may not realize it, but this strong warrior has his soft side. Always keeps himself clean as a whistle, when he’s not slaying dragons.”

“And saving my brother’s ass in the field,” says Treesap. He’s told me this story before, but judging by Onslaught’s curious expression, this is all news to him. Treesap goes to Onslaught and explains. “Branch, my older brother, walked right out of the dragon after it fell and Caro cast that fancy ghost spell. He was beside himself when he returned to Everfree. Sat me down and told me the whole thing. I had to come down here and show Caro my appreciation for all he’s done.”

“Dragons falling from the sky. For once, in a good way,” Onslaught japes. “Anyway, Caro saved Dragon Bridge, and my family’s legacy. The dragons took my dad away, but I can at least be grateful that my home is still intact, and I still have something to remember him by.”

“Counting your blessings, that’s the way. Would you like to go for a walk?” Treesap asks, gesturing to the door.

Onslaught nods enthusiastically. “Yes, actually. I was heading down to the forge anyway. Sir Rosemary’s there repairing weapons, and I was going to ask her about an apprenticeship.”

“Oh, you can make weapons? Then we have something in common! I can bake!”

Onslaught is taken aback. “Fascinating… But yours and mine are two very different practices.”

“In theory, perhaps.” Treesap places his hoof over his chest and stands up straight, looking the part of a philosopher for a second. “Both be trials of fire towards the creation of a fine product.”

“Though eating a sword is generally frowned upon…” Onslaught searches his pockets. “Tell you what, we each put… ah... two bits on the line, and ask Rosemary what she thinks.”

“Deal.” Treesap taps his hoof to Onslaught’s.

The children go on their way, talking and smiling as they head out into the rain. I would hate to say it, but I’m rather envious of them right now. Whether it be by lack of comprehension or lack of knowing, they aren’t aware of how grim the situation really is. Further, aside from me, they’re the only ones who seem confident that Caro will wake up.

He will.

I’m getting a little anxious. Those little ones and their energy… They tend to rub off on me. I too shall go for a walk. I get out of my bed and move to the entrance of the infirmary, taking my pillow with me. “I’ll be back soon,” I say to Caro. “Don’t go anywhere.”

The recovering soldiers are spread out across this entire house. Funny to think this place was empty when we came across it, but now it’s filled from end to end with the wounded. I’m not too keen on finding out where we’ve stashed the deceased, but we have to make room for the living.

I’m saluted by a few conscious soldiers that catch a glimpse of me as I pass by. I feel sorry for these ones, as the overflow has left them to sit out in the hall without any comfort whatsoever. I give my pillow to a young soldier whose face is half gone from a nasty burn.

“One of Shokenda’s elites?” I ask him.

He nods, graciously accepting the pillow. He curls up on the floor, inviting one of his fellow soldiers over to share.

The one room that is somewhat lively is still filled with wounded, but they’re staying in good spirits. And I can see why. Everypony in here is well enough to walk, or at least sit up in bed, and having a collective of bards to play music for you certainly doesn’t hurt matters. Divines bless Xephyr. He and several others from Everfree’s bard college came along as soon as word got out about Caro’s sacrifice. The thick concentration of zebras had caused some sages and soldiers to raise a few eyebrows, but I vouched for them. It’s not as if they’re a burden. They hardly take up space when they’re not playing their jovial songs, and they even brought their own food.

I’m one of many who bob their heads and hum along with their song. This one in particular is equal parts sorrowful and joyful, and the eclectic mix of lovely voices makes it sink under my skin.

“Aye, he is that what you said, and your oath's been sworn in vain...
Never trust the northern winds...
Never turn your back on friends!
‘Oh, I'm heir of the high Lord!’ You better not trust him.
The enemy of mine, isn't he of your kind?
And finally you may follow me!”

I’ll make sure Caro hears this one when he wakes up.

Another ingredient to such light in darkness comes from constant letter deliveries. This room has been designated as the place of arrival for these messages. As such, the soldiers here are the first to receive them. An organized stack of envelopes sits upon a table in the corner. I let my curiosity take over and have a look at them. They’re already open, so what’s the harm?

My dear Gentle Crossbreeze,

I care not for your loss of eye, for my love for you transcends sight itself. Let my everlasting joy to know you live be thrust upon you when you read this letter.

From your darling Long Haul.

“Ugh, bards,” I say with a pained smile. I look over the next one.

Do not terrify me like that again. I have been worried sick for a week. I did not marry you just so you could And what’s this we hear of the Dragonborn turning everypony into ghosts? You’d best hope he’s around to save you again if I come down there.

Come home soon.
Ash.

Even the most hardened Imperial Legion soldier is no match for the wrath of a furious wife. I pick up another letter, finding myself attracted to its fine wax seal (which has long been broken) and the extravagant calligraphy. I have an inkling as to who wrote this.

Dearest Mother,

It seems your lie was the truth after all. Upon word of your survival, I rounded up some guests and threw an impromptu banquet at the Rainbow Palace. It seemed like something that just had to be done, despite the unfortunate occurances at Ghastly Gorge. If anything, it’s helped keep everypony in high spirits, ready for what may come in the oncoming days.

I’m deeply sorry for what happened to Uncle Caro. I can only hope that his recovery comes quickly. I express regret and wish I could do more to help him. Give him my best.

Everfree is shining brightly as ever. I wish you could see it from up on this balcony. Please return as soon as you can. Luna prefers it when you sing her to sleep.

Love from Celina.

Beneath all of this fine penmanship are several hastily scrawled letters that somehow spell out a coherent sentence.

I lov yo momy
luna

“I’ll teach her proper writing ability when I return to Everfree,” says Shae as she looks over my shoulder.

“Oh!” I lurch forward and drop the letter back on the table. I scratch the back of my head, looking quite sheepish and insincere as I try to act casual. “That was just, not, um, not anything. Sorry.”

Shae waves her hoof and taps me on the muzzle, prompting me to stand up straight. “It’s quite alright. Celina is just as much family to you as she is to me.” As she puts the letter back in its envelope, she tilts her head at me. “You look like you’re coming along.”

“Am I? I feel like hammered shit.”

“Your posture is consistent, your walking cycle is steady, if a bit slow, and your flinching from any sort of discomfort has decreased. I daresay you’ll be up and fighting within a few weeks. Assuming you plan on going right back into the field.”

I chuckle, humbled by her thorough analysis. “I do have to go back on duty. I’m wasting valuable time lying around.” As great as it’s been being this close to Caro…

“I’m sure Queen Platinum would grant you a leave of absence.”

“Another one? That’d be awfully generous of her… Though, I would welcome it. I would hate to slip up if my wounds decide to have a second coming in the field.”

“Speaking of which…” Shae’s horn comes alight with its red aura, catching me off guard. I know her signature color is supposed to be magenta, same as her eyes, so why has it suddenly turned red? For what little I understand about magic, I know that unicorn aura can’t change spontaneously, and this change seems to coincide with some strange behavior on Shae’s part.

Shae’s thoughts on the matter are the opposite of mine. She seems to be losing hope with every passing day. She’s told me that if Caro could walk away from this, or at least stumble, he’d have opened his eyes by now. She fears that his returning breath and heartbeat, partnered with the absence of consciousness, mean that he might have gone into an indefinite coma. I can’t blame her for worrying, and I would be a fool to try and convince her to feel the way I feel.

“Hey, listen—”

“It can wait. We need to change your bandages.” Shae looks more focused than she should be as she levitates rolls of gauze out of a nearby drawer. “Remove your robe.”

I snatch the gauze out of the air. My shoulder twinges a bit in doing so, but I ignore it. “Shae, I changed my bandages an hour ago. Calm down.”

“Oh, sorry…” Shae’s aura fades. She takes a seat by the table of letters, sulking into the chair. “I’m not doing well, Tohro.”

“What was your first clue?” I say, partially as a joke, but I do want to hear what has her so upset, aside from the obvious.

“Cognitive dissonance. I want to be here, helping the soldiers that are protecting Everfree from Shokenda… Protecting my daughters from her.” She leans her head back, her voice shaking as she lets out a long sigh. “She wants Celina and Luna. So, what should I do? Put my life on the line and stop her before she gets one step closer to Everfree? Or do I stay in the Rainbow Palace, spending every waking moment with my children, praying that Shokenda meets her end before I have to fight her myself?”

I take her hooves and pull her forward until she’s sitting properly. “I think you should do whatever you think is best. Be selfish for once in your life.” I raise my foreleg. “But I want you to promise me something.”

“What’s that?”

I place my hooves on Shae’s shoulders and drop my smile. The music seems to go quiet as Shae and I envelope ourselves in our own private moment of grim truth. “No matter what happens, you must not die.”

Understandably, she looks confused, narrowing her gaze. “Huh?”

"Shae, until this point, at least one of Dragonrein was expendable. The survivors would have found some means of coping and moving on. But not now. I realize that we're not just some chess pieces on a single board. We are moving those pieces with every choice we make, and if even one of us dies, everything falls apart."

Shae slowly nods. “I think I understand, but—”

“You were never expendable. You proved that time and time again, but now Celina and Luna need you, and the rest of Equestria does as well. No more battles for you. Not ever."

She nods again. "Okay..."

"As for Caro... Well, he caused just as much damage as he fixed, once upon a time. But when I think of him now, I barely remember what he used to be. He will decide the end of this war."

“Even without a leg? Even if he never—”

“He'll find a way. He always does. As for me…” I look down at the wood floor and force a hollow laugh. “I was never anything special.”

Shae shakes her head, her eyes wide and bright as ever. "Of course you were! Don’t say that."

She has no idea what she’s talking about. "Pegasus soldier with a rebellious streak and intermediate weapon skill. Ten bits for a dozen in the Imperial Legion. I could have fallen any time and it wouldn't have mattered. Until recently..."

"Hm?"

I let go of Shae. "If I die, Caro loses everything." As if I’m casting an aura of my own, I suddenly feel weaker than I was when I came into this room. I should probably lie down. “I… I’m going back to bed. He might have woken up by now.”

“Assuming he—”

“He will wake up.”

~Vision End~

~Caro~

The bedsheets are covered in specks of blood and tiny shards of glass. The source of such a mess is my hoof. My younger self’s hoof, that is. Curled up on the bed, his head tucked to his chest, his hind legs bent, his forelegs clasped tightly to his shoulders.

If I could feel the air of this particular memory, it would be arid, cold, and moist. The rainfall is louder than it should be, as the one window of what once was my bedroom is shattered. The trail of blood is at its thickest on the floor beneath the sil.

“From a pleasant memory of honey biscuits to something like this…” Rasahrel says, taken aback by such a nightmarish scene. “Whatever happened?”

“You’ll see,” I respond wearily.

Rasahrel approaches my child form. There’s nothing she can do for me; she’s several years too late for that. Still, I can’t blame her for wanting to hold my small hooves, even if she can’t touch them. Her hooves pass right through me. I’ve never seen such a caring, motherly expression on a dragon before, equine form or otherwise. Even Master, a dragon who openly wept, has never looked so emotional.

Speaking of Master, his former equine form has entered the bedroom. “Caro?” he asks in a concerned tone. He takes notice of the broken window, as well as the blood. On any other day, he’d be upset at me for such an act, but not today. Not after what happened. “Caro, I need to speak with you.”

“Fuck you,” my young self says, causing Rasahrel to step back.

Master is unfettered, as per usual. He steps up to me, knowing better than to touch me when I’m in such an emotional state. Instead, he stands there, and speaks calmly. “...Just let me say something, and I’ll leave you be.”

“What’s there to talk about? My parents are dead,” I say, my voice unnaturally calm, as if I’m restraining myself from doing something rash. More rash that breaking a window, anyway.

Master sits at the end of my bed and sighs. “I... don’t want to say you should have seen this coming… Holding on to hope that they would come back was what set you apart from the rest of the children hurt by this war. I just want you to know that this is but one hardship of many. Do not let it be the one that kills the hopeful side of you. Equestria is obsessed with death enough as it is.”

I don’t respond for some time. The lull is filled with the sounds of dripping water, and another shard of glass falling from the window. “Why did it have to be them?” I ask, my body unraveling slightly.

“I don’t know,” Master says with another heavy sigh.

I kick the sheets away, sitting up as my red, manic eyes glare at Master. “Then what good are you?!”

Rasahrel is visibly stunned, slowly backing away from my younger form until she’s back next to me. “My goodness… Were you and your mother and father terribly close?”

“...Not exactly. I didn’t know Earthquake and Goldheart as well as I know Master. They were just… my parents. But that’s exactly why I had to grieve for them. They were still my parents, dammit, and I wanted to know them...”

I look at my young self, seeing his vapid, broken face. That certainly looks familiar. I wonder how often I’ve worn that face since my parents died? All too often, that’s for sure. But even so, if I were to look back on all of times I’ve been worn down, physically and emotionally, they somehow don’t seem so awful. Those moments where I thought I had lost everything served to make me what I am now, and while I may have regrets about who I used to be, I have no regrets about where I stand today. Not even for my missing leg, because I disposed of that thing on my terms for the sake of sparing innocent lives.

But my parents were my first loss. And in retrospect, it seems so minor. So expected. Something out of an old story. That’s why I can bring myself to smile, at least for a second. “That was the day I lost faith in the Empire,” I say to Rasahrel. “That distrust turned into hatred. Even as I recovered, I never forgave them for something that was beyond their control.”

“Do you think you should have directed your anger at something else?” Rasahrel asks. As she speaks, a group of equine silhouettes appear behind her, slowly taking form. I’ve seen these ponies far too often for how long they’ve all been dead. Pyro and Ember. Preacher. Sunflower. And now Sacred Rite is among their ranks, even though I merely left her to die… I miss Sahvot.

“I shouldn’t have been angry in the first place,” I say, my voice firm and resolute. The apparitions disperse as the words leave my mouth. “Anger only caused me more pain.”

The silhouettes reconvene into something else, forming a distant landscape decorated with slabs. It’s a graveyard. I can recognize my figure, as well as Master’s. I’m standing tall and stiff at my parents’ empty grave. There wasn’t enough of them to bury. That, among other things, is why my silhouette angrily tosses a rock into the distance, kicks the tip of the gravestone, and collapses into Master’s embrace.

“Why do you act this way?” I ask myself.